Blood on the Snow
by Kefalion
Summary: Abraxas wants what's best for his son. Changing their lives means that he must confront danger. To do so, he'll need luck. But he isn't very lucky.


This story was written for the **Third Round **of the Seventh Season of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition. I'm writing as **Chaser 2 **for **The Tutshill Tornados**.

The name of the round: Dances From Around the World

The task of CHASER 2: The Choliya of Uttarakhand; **write about a character who is superstitious. The superstition must be a key element of the story and influential in the character's life.**

These are the prompts I'm using to as a chaser to score some extra points.

1\. (song) Demons - Imagine Dragons  
7\. (object) snow  
8\. (genre) tragedy

**Disclaimer:** I don't own any part of the world J.K. Rowling has created. It's all hers, from Diagon Alley to Hogwarts to all the people living there.

Thanks to my lovely team for betaing!

**WARNING:** the genre is tragedy. Do bear that in mind. It'll get dark. And if there's anything in particular you know you wouldn't like to read, have a look at the endnote for a longer warning.

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**Blood on the Snow  
**_Words: 2 072_

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"It snowed at Hogwarts weeks ago," Lucius said. He and Abraxas were eating breakfast in the solar, the vast grounds of the manor visible through the many arched windows. The fields were covered in a glistening layer of white: the first snow seen in Wiltshire that season.

Abraxas lifted his cup of tea, took a slow drink, and regarded his son over the rim. Lucius would not meet his gaze.

"Is that so," Abraxas said.

"Yes." Lucius had his hand by his mouth, covered it, protected himself. He almost squirmed in his chair. Uncouth. Lying.

"Then why is it that Mr Scrivenshaft reported that no snow has fallen in Hogsmeade yet?"

Abraxas looked steadily at Lucius, and Lucius bore the stare for a lingering moment. The house-elves vanished the untouched dishes, adding new steaming ones. Abraxas put his teacup back down, and it clinked softly against the saucer. Lucius broke.

"Fine!" he said and crossed his arms. "I lied because I don't want to gather snow to make some silly good luck charm. It's a stupid superstition."

"There is nothing stupid about inviting luck."

"I don't need your made up luck. What good did it ever do? Luck didn't save Mother." Lucius rose quickly. The chair toppled over with a bang. He looked down at it, huffed, and stalked away.

"You have not been excused!"

Lucius didn't reply. He merely stomped his feet loudly and slammed the door harshly.

None of it surprised Abraxas. He'd hoped to be wrong, hoped that Lucius would want to be a part of the snow gathering. All years, barring one, since Lucius had started Hogwarts, they'd not had the opportunity to do it together. Lucius had, up until a couple of years ago, said that he'd done it on his own. Then his Mother had died, and everything had changed. He'd discerned what traditions were part of the norm, ones that he could proudly share his knowledge and which ones earned him unbridled scorn.

The traditional beliefs of the Malfoy line degraded to cheap superstitions.

While Lucius might claim not to need any luck, Abraxas did. He'd not told Lucius why he needed it especially badly this year. His son was much too impressionable to know the truth of what Abraxas did to gain money and influence. He didn't need any encouragement to embrace the darker sides of magic. He got more than enough of that from his friends. Abraxas sheltered him as best he could.

He drank the rest of his tea in measured sips, got his winter cloak from one of the elves, and went out into the snow. It went up to his calves, soft and powdery. Out in the open, he cast a spell to fling up a large portion of a drift and sent it flying over his head. He swirled around to catch the snow with another spell, to transform it into a gleaming disk. He stumbled and nearly missed, but his aim was true. He smiled in satisfaction. The fresh power of winter harnessed, good luck his until spring.

—_Blood on the Snow—_

"Malfoy, there had better be an exceptional reason for your request of an audience, and for your sake, the reason better be that you have favourable news. My patience has already been tested today." Voldemort studied Abraxas with unnerving, demon-red eyes, and Abraxas would have lost his nerve were it not for the chill against his sternum where the snow-charm rested.

"My lord, I've come to speak to you about my son."

"Ah, yes. Young Lucius. How old is he now?"

"He will be seventeen in February."

"Good. I'm pleased. He'll be ready to serve the cause."

Abraxas pressed his lips together and aborted the motion to wring his hands. Calm and composure were what he had to culture "That is what I wished to discuss. I feel that he is too young. He has one year left at Hogwarts. He should be allowed to complete his education without further burdens being placed on his shoulders. We can entertain the idea of letting him join at a later date, but_—_" At Voldemort's unnatural stillness, Abraxas cut himself off. He lowered his eyes and uttered a soft: "my lord."

Voldemort drummed the fingers of his right hand against the back of his left one. "Is it no longer an honour to serve?"

"Of course, it is. It's the greatest honour, but_—_"

"Ah, Abraxas." Voldemort smiled. Although it was a close-lipped smile, it was razor sharp. "Here is that annoying word again. _But_. Tell me, have you not thrived under my patronage? Has servitude not served you well? Has the knowledge I've so generously shared not benefited you greatly? Has it not allowed you to satisfy your greed and gather funds to further my cause,_ our_ cause? Has it not given you the standing in our society that you so desperately desire? Has it not enabled you to rid us all of the filthy stain upon our government that was the Mudblood Nobby Leach?" Voldemort raised an eyebrow in silent query, a stabbed period at the end of the paragraph.

"Yes, my lord. All that and more."

"I see." Voldemort nodded slowly. "And yet, you don't think your son should share this honour? You think it will be a burden for him. Might that be because you've raised a snivelling worm, a feeble waif, a squib, too sickly and dim-witted to partake in the furthering of my grand design?"

"None of that is true. I'm certain my son will grow into a great wizard. I couldn't be prouder. But," Abraxas failed to hold back a flinch as the word passed his lips and Voldemort's gaze bored into him, "it would be criminal to not let him grow into his full potential. A fruit plucked before its time will never ripen to the same sweetness as one left on the bough."

"And if left for too long, it will rot." Voldemort drew his wand, held it lightly, studied the pale wood. He cast a spell at Abraxas and his thoughts were laid bare, the procedure none too gentle. The only good thing to be said about it was that it was over quickly. Within the span of a fluttered heartbeat, all of Abraxas misgivings, his distaste for the violence Voldemort's rise to power would demand, his plans to leave the country to spare Lucius any part in it were brought into the open.

Voldemort circled Abraxas, his dark robes whispering around him, feet silent against the richly carpeted floor. "I understand now, and I'm disappointed, Abraxas. Deeply disappointed. I had thought better of you. But," he bared his teeth, "even the unwilling can be made to serve."

Abraxas fell to his knees, head bowed. "Mercy, my lord." He palmed at his own chest, desperate to assure himself of the luck he carried, that though he seemed hellbound, it would turn out all right. His fingers found wet fabric. The spell that held the snow locked as a charm had failed. It had melted. All the air went out of him. His fingers trembled as they dug into the knots at the root of the carpet.

"Lord Voldemort is merciful. That is why you'll have to honour of serving one last time."

—_Blood on the Snow—_

Abraxas panted as he lay with the scent of frost in his nose, snow against his face, pain throbbing through his skull, and his insides rearranged beyond discomfort. He groaned and rolled over onto his back. He'd apparated home and fallen. His memory was patchy. He couldn't with any certainty say what Voldemort had done to him. He knew only that it was bad. Very, very bad.

His luck had deserted him when he best needed it, but there were ways to make more. He needed more. He would cheat his way to it. If ever there was a time to break the rules, it was now. Finding undisturbed blood on the snow signified good luck, a powerful omen. He used his wand to make a small cut to his palm, and let some blood drip down on the snow. It spread among the ice-crystals, forming a small star. He directed his wand at the wound, preparing to close it up, blinked and saw flames that seared through his mind. He flinched and dropped the wand.

There was something in his head. Voldemort had put something in his head. Something malicious. Something infernal. He knew it. Could feel it. Gnawing. Grating. Growing.

Could others see it? Would Lucius see it?

He bent down and picked up his wand. To his relief, the blood spot remained undisturbed. He had good luck on his side again. He'd fix this.

However, it didn't feel promising. Each blink brought forth the same vision of fire, flickering black flames burning his thoughts. He transfigured some snow into a handheld mirror and brought it close to peer into his own eyes. They were dark, the iris and sclera black. When he looked closer still, he saw flames. Or he might have blinked. He stared hard, forced himself not to blink, held his breath to remain absolutely still.

A silent scream tore through his mind. Blinding black fire filled his vision. Startled, he threw the mirror. It smashed against the stem of a tree. _A broken mirror—seven years of bad luck._ He fell to his knees, destroying the blood patch. _Seeing a disturbed patch of blood on the snow—horribly bad luck. _A sweet scent on the wind made him looked at the tree the mirror had broken against. The hawthorne was filled to the brim with clusters of small white flowers, their colour mingling with the snow. _Blooming trees in winter—bad luck, a portent of death._

A hysterical, gut-wrenching laugh bubbled over his lips.

He was cursed.

—_Blood on the Snow—_

"Lucius!" Abraxas half-fell into the entry hall. "Lucius!" He stumbled on across the polished flagstones, leaving wet patches behind. Half-melted snow dripped off his cloak. "Lucius!" he screamed again.

"In here, father."

Abraxas followed his son's voice. He arrived at Septimus' Parlour. The drapes were drawn, casting the room in shadow. Only a small sliver of winter-light slipped through, falling across Lucius' lap and climbing to gleam on his pale hair where he sat in a high-backed armchair.

"We must leave."

"Leave? What do you mean?"

"We can't stay here. It's not safe."

"Not safe?"

"I must take you where he cannot reach you, then I'll leave. We'll head for the continent. I have friends there. They'll take care of you. Come on, now! We mustn't tarry."

Lucius didn't move a muscle.

"Now, Lucius!"

His son shook his head

Abraxas blinked, and from the flames behind his eyelids, masked figures emerged, and out from behind Lucius stepped a pale-skinned demon with hellfire eyes.

"Do you see now the man he is?" Voldemort whispered. "Panicked and cowardly he would abandon the cause. He would desert his master. He must be punished. This is your test. Your chance to prove that you are more than the one who fathered you."

Abraxas trembled. "You would have him kill me?"

"Kill you?" Voldemort's lips twitched into a faint smile. "That is up to the young man. He has to prove himself. He must decide for himself how to best earn my regard."

Lucius rose from the chair, moving languidly, movements measured, nothing of the brashness from that morning visible. "What do you think of your luck now?" he said. "Did your snow-charm not hold? Were you too clumsy to cast it properly? Or just too unobservant to notice that you weren't alone? And how did you enjoy the garden? I practised some herbology while you were away. Impressive, wouldn't you say?"

An icy fist clenched around Abraxas' heart. "Lucius," he sighed the name, breath hitching. "Why?"

"For Mother. And for me. I will not be dragged down along with you. My lord," he turned to Voldemort. "What were the words you used? Snivelling worm, feeble waif, squib, sickly and dim-witted?"

"Just so."

"Then that's will be his punishment."

Abraxas looked into Lucius' eyes as his son raised his wand. His eyes shone brightly, a different demon and curse than his own. Malfoy men were made of greed. Lucius had not been spared. There was no escape. No good luck to be had.

The black flames flickered one last time, then all light faded out.

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**The End**

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**A/N 18th May 2019**

I constructed this story veeeeery carefully, taking the prompts, characters, and story structure into a great deal of consideration. Hope it shows.

I'm guessing you'll all know the mirror superstition, but the snow-superstitions in this story are extended and wizardified versions of a couple of superstitions mentioned in this article _7 Cold Weather Superstitions From History People Actually Used To Believe_ found on the site.

3\. Tossing the first new snow means you'll not be cold winter.

6\. Seeing some blood on the snow is good luck. But it mustn't be disturbed or partially cleaned up, then it's bad luck.

2\. Blooming plants in winter?! Bad luck! Means death!

Please let me know what you thought of the story!

**Extended warning:**

Demonic possession / curse

Invasion of privacy aka legilimency

Betrayal

Major character death


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